“Olivia, listen to me.” I shift to face her. I take her hands into mine, fighting against the lick of fire growing in my gut. “You’re worthy of being pursued, of being respected, of true love. So quit blaming yourself when you’renotthe problem.”
Her grin is hypnotic, numbing my senses, and contagious enough to make the corners of my mouth lift. “Thank you for always putting me in my place. You’re thebestfriend I couldever ask for.” She gives my hands a squeeze before releasing them to grab a spoon from the coffee table.
I swallow, the sound vibrating between us, as I try not to reveal how the term ‘best friend’ always twists my stomach. I hear it every day from her as a reminder of where my place is in her life. No matter what I do, that reminder stings. A dull pain I’ve learned to live with.
“Cookie dough?” she offers.
“Spoon me.” I open my mouth and welcome the sweet taste of dough and sugar. “Sugar cookie?” I mumble through a mouthful, turning my attention toward the remote and not on how her spoonful touches her pink lips.
“Mm-hmm,” she replies. After she swallows and gets a drink of water, she adds, “I’m going to make different types of botanical cookies tomorrow.”
Her eyes brighten, like Christmas lights, twinkling and glittering toward me. Olivia is always radiant when she mentions something she’s passionate about. She turns into pure sunshine, and her reactions are much better than anything we could be watching on television.
“What flavors are you making?” I ask, wanting to keep this version of her for as long as I can.
She squeals with excitement as she grabs her phone and pulls up her notes. “Okay, what do you think about these? Orange zest and violas. Fresh fennel—they look like little trees—and powdered sugar, which looks like snow. I know, it’s adorable. Marshmallow and candy cane, which isn’t botanical, but come on, I'm going for Christmas themes. How do those sound?”
“I think it sounds like I’d be happy to be a taste tester for these cookies,” I say, and she beams at me. “Wanna play some Mario Kart?” I ask, desperately in need of a distraction because my mind keeps lingering on the shape of her lips and imagining how sweet they might taste.
“The more important question is, are you ready to cry when I beat you, or are you going to take it like a champ?”
My brows pull together with the challenge as I grin. “First of all, I’m going to do both. Secondly, quit hogging the dough.”
This feels right. I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve spent on this couch with Olivia—sharing blankets, trading bad jokes, half-watching movies while we compete at whatever game she’s obsessed with that week. Every awkward date, every near-miss with someone else, has led back to this:us. And with the way she’s looking at me now, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe she feels it too.
Chapter Three
Luke
“Iswear someone broke in here and stole my famous apple-pie bread recipe,” Ms. Johnson says, tossing her hands in the air. It takes everything in me to refrain from rolling my eyes.
I can agree that her apple-pie bread is well-known in Covewood. People even travel here just to buy a loaf from her bakery. I make sure to grab one or two each season when she bakes it. But for her to say someone broke into her home to steal the recipe…that doesn’t sit right with me.
“Ms. Johnson, there’s no sign of a break-in. Maybe you misplaced?—”
“I would never misplace my most prized possession.”
“I thought that was your lawn gnome collection?” I say with a grin because just last month she called and swore someone stole one of her lawn gnomes, but she had forgotten her greenskeeper had moved it when he was mowing her lawn and hadn’t put him back in the right place.
“This is not funny, Mr. Beckett. Stealing is a crime, and I expect you to do your job of protecting and serving this town.Don’t think I forgot about how you helped your little friend steal my gnomes all those years ago.”
“That was Raine, not me.” I say this because it’s the truth. Olivia and Raine had decided it would be fun to play a traumatizing prank on me with Ms. Johnson’s most terrifying gnome, Mr. Gnome Chomsky. I was as much of a victim as Ms. Johnson was, but she’ll never see it that way.
“I bet it was Olivia who stole my recipe.She’salready stolen my customers with her fancy organic foods. She’s brainwashed everyone into thinking thatherbaked goods are better when we all knoworganicis a huge scam.”
Okay, I’ve had enough from this woman. “When did you say this recipe went missing?”
“Last night. While I was asleep.” She hisses each word, crossing her arms together.
“I was at Olivia’s house last night and can vouch that she did not steal your recipe.” What I don’t say is that Olivia doesn’t need to steal her recipes in order to have a successful business.
Ms. Johnson huffs in frustration as her landline phone rings. Once she excuses herself and exits the room, I reach into my pocket to grab my cell phone and type a quick text message to Olivia.
This feud between you and Ms. Johnson will be the death of me.
Olivia’s reply pops onto my phone screen within seconds.
Liv
